Cupid 💎💘

[kniesonice]

And They Were Roommates ╰┈➤ DG11

summary: desperate for a place to live during your last year at uni, you respond to a vague craig list ad for a guy your age needing a roommate. feeling bold, you go through with it. after all, the guys user is gunthman11, and said he’s away most of the time anyways. what could go wrong? besides showing up and finding out the man in question is your childhood nemesis, dylan glenther.

[word count] 17.3k

warnings: childhood enemies to friends to lovers | slow burn | roommate dynamics | humour/crack | mentions of drinking | childhood bullying | banter | tension | fluff | angst | brief one bed trope dynamic | swearing | sport related injury | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

pairing; dylan guenther x reader

authors note: this idea literally just come out of nowhere and I worked on it for 4 days straight to execute it before I lost motivation. obviously i’ve never written for dylan before, but he’s so cutie pie and Im obsessed with him. hope you guys love this—I feel like it’s similar to things i’ve explored before, but also unique. lace dividers from @cursed-carmine

🎶 always been you by shawn mendes, haircut by noah kahan, scar tissue by red hot chilli peppers, drop dead by olivia rodrigo, earrings by malcolm todd, heaven by bryan adams, roommates by hillary duff + hang with me by robyn

the sidewalk smells faintly of dirty snow and garbage that's been left out for a day too long…which is great. with a grimace on your face, you look down at your phone, the craiglist chat thread pulled up like proof of concept. like this entire situation is seconds away from disappearing.

a text from your study group bestie, luca, pops up on your screen—another warning about you even messaging about the listing in the first place. she's warned you many times about how dangerous this whole thing is, but you waved her off every time because, well, you need a place to live.

realistically, you know that responding to an ad made by a man on craiglist isn't very smart. especially with a username like gunthman11–but the chances of him being a student, like you, are very high. that, and you figured it's utah, what's the worse that can happen?

and this place is affordable, and there's a campus bus stop like, a 2 minute walk away. it’s perfect, despite the whole sketchy vibe of taking an offer from craigslist.

you just heart the message and toss your phone in your bag.

you roll your heavy suitcase up to the stairs, one wheel bent just enough that it tilts awkwardly to the side, making it unnecessarily difficult. you think about trying to heave it up all three stairs right now, then decide against it, leaving it on the concrete walk up to the house—your house.

the rest of you stuff is in your car, which you parked against the curb, because the car in the driveway looks sort of expensive and you felt weary.

"okay," you take a deep breath, pull your hair over your shoulder and smooth it out. "let's get this over with." then, you knock.

the door makes a funny creaking noise when it opens—like a poor jointed robot—and it’s makes you almost snicker. that is, until you lock eyes with the familiar gaze of the man who opened it, and your heart plummets to your ass.

dylan guenther stands with one hand braced on the wood, the other still holding the handle like he opened it and then immediately regretted every decision that led him here. his hair is shorter than you remember, cleaner cut, but the expression is exactly the same—somewhere between disbelief and irritation, like the universe personally inconvenienced him.

"what the fuck." the exclaim comes out before you can stop it, sharp and breathless, fists clenching at your sides so you don't have the urge to reach up and claw your own eyes out.

his eyebrows shoot up, just slightly, like he's trying to decide if this is real or some kind of elaborate joke. "y/n?" your name sounds weird in his mouth—familiar and wrong all at once.

you blink at him, once, twice, like that'll somehow swap him out for literally anyone else on the planet. "dylan?" you ask like an idiot—because what else are you supposed to do?

your childhood nemesis huffs out something that almost resembles a laugh, but there's no humor in it, just disbelief. he straightens a little, pushing off the doorframe, running a hand through his hair like he needs a second to recalibrate.

"yeah," he says, dragging the word out as his eyes flick over you, your suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, the plant he can see through your car window—taking in the full, unfortunate picture. "what are you...doing here?"

at that, you let out a short, incredulous breath, shifting your weight as your bag tips and you have to catch it with your foot.

"what are you doing here?" you shoot back, brows knitting together. "I thought you lived in arizona. you know, the whole hockey thing? or did that fall apart?"

his mouth twitches, something smug slipping into place like it never left. "nope. the team moved here." a beat. his gaze sharpens, tilting just slightly. "but glad to see you were keeping tabs."

you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, crossing your arms over your chest like that might somehow anchor you. "are you the guy I was talking to about the room for rent?"

there's a flicker of realization in dylan's expression—quick, but noticeable. his grip tightens on the door just a fraction. "I thought I was talking to a guy," he shoots back immediately, like that's the bigger issue here. "you've got that star wars username." he says, like that explains everything.

your jaw drops, just slightly. "so you assumed?"

"yeah."

you let out a dry, humorless laugh, glancing past him into the house—there's a big couch, a half unpacked box like he hasn't been here long, a hockey stick propped casually against the wall like it belongs there now. of course there is.

"right," you mutter, dragging your gaze back to him. "so—"

"you can't live here." his voice cuts you off. it's immediate. flat. like he's been waiting to say it since the second he realized what was happening here.

your head snaps back, eyes narrowing. "what?" you take a step forward before you can stop yourself, bag bumping into your ribs. "dylan, you can't be serious."

he shifts, blocking the doorway more fully now, shoulders squaring like this is a standoff instead of a conversation. there's something almost panicked under the irritation, but it's buried deep.

"I can't live with you, y/n."

the words land heavier than they should, and for a second it's not this porch, not this stupid house—it's years ago, slammed lockers and sharp words and the kind of history that never really untangles itself.

you tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly, something sharper—petty—slipping in.

"why?" you muse, voice tipping into something almost sweet. "scared i'll leave a bra on the couch or something and scare away your lady friends?"

his face scrunches immediately, like you just personally offended him. "you're so fucking weird."

there it is. that familiar annoyance that you've associated with dylan guenther since you were kids, up until the 12th grade.

you just shrug and lift your chin just a little.

"you love it." after that, you turn sharply then, stomp down the stairs, grab your bag and heave it up the steps—all while dylan watches without offering his assistance—you can't say you're surprised because he's always been a dick.

you stop in front of him again, nudge your suitcase forward with your foot, trying to edge past him, like it’s already decided. "now let me in."

his hand shoots out, bracing harder against the door, blocking you completely. "no."

you can only stare at him. because he can't be fucking serious. "you want me to be homeless?" you prompt, brow raised expectantly.

there's a split second where he falters—just enough. his eyes flick down to your bag again, to the plant, to the very real reality of you standing in his doorway with nowhere else to go.

"what? no—"

"then step aside, tough guy." you step forward again, closer this time. close enough to see the tiny scar on his chin you definitely remember giving him when you were 10–long story involving barbie’s—close enough that the tension shifts into something tighter, sharper.

dylan's jaw clenches. for a second, it looks like he might actually hold his ground. but then, although reluctant—"fine."

he barely moves when he says it, just shifts his weight back a fraction, one hand still braced flat against the inside of the door like he could slam it shut again if you pushed your luck too far. which, historically, you always do.

you stand there for half a second longer than necessary, suitcase handle digging into your palm, heart beating somewhere up near your throat—not from the stairs you just climbed, not from the september heat still clinging to your skin, but from the sheer, absurd disbelief of it all.

gunthman11–how did you not see it? but to be fair, you thought he lived in arizona, not fucking utah. when you first responded to the ad—looking for a roommate, independent, respectful, non-smoker, blah blah blah—you pictured...honestly, you hadn't pictured much. some random engineering student. maybe awkward. hopefully quiet.

definitely not six foot something, broad shouldered, annoyingly familiar, and currently looking at you like you've just tracked mud across his entire life, childhood nemesis. your everything-nemesis.

dylan fucking guenther.

the boy who used to steal your bike and hide it three streets over. the boy who snapped your gel pens in half in seventh grade because you "had too many colours." the boy who, at sixteen, told you that your music taste was "painfully predictable" and then proceeded to memorize every song on your playlist just to prove a point.

and now—apparently—your landlord.

you step past him before he can change his mind.

inside smells faintly like laundry detergent and something citrusy, clean but not overly so. it's nicer than you expected. open concept, big windows, sunlight spilling across hardwood floors. a couch that actually matches the rug. hockey gear tossed carelessly in one corner like it belongs there, like it's part of the decor.

behind you, dylan closes the door with a creaking click. silence stretches between you for a second, thick and familiar and a little too charged for two people who just reunited on a porch ten minutes ago.

you look over your shoulder at him, find him already watching you, and you practically snarl.

then, so you don't slap that stupid look off his face, you glance around again, forcing your attention elsewhere, spotting a second door down the short hall—probably the bedroom you'd been promised through a craigslist chat.

the one you'd already mentally decorated. the one you need. another reason you were drawn to this ad in particular is because dylan—or gunthman11 rather—said he's gone most of the time anyways, which means quiet. which you need for the copious amounts of studying you need to fit it. welcome to the life of a university student.

squaring your shoulders, you turn your attention back to him. "look," start say, tone shifting—less bite, more resolve. "I don't have a backup plan, okay? this was it." your gesture to your bag like it speaks for itself. "my lease ended. everyone else already sorted their housing. i'm starting classes in a week."

dylan watches you, expression unreadable now, arms crossing over his chest like he's bracing himself against something.

"i'm not asking you to suddenly start liking me," you add, a little more quietly. "I never did." his brows twitch, just slightly, like he's remembering the same things you are. but you just continue, "I just need a place to live."

you're not one for begging, but you're seconds away from dropping down to your knees right about now.

dylan exhales over the sound of the fridge humming, gaze dropping to your suitcase, then lifting back to your face. "you're still a nightmare, you know that?" he mutters, but there's less heat behind it now. more resignation.

"and yet," you say lightly, "here I am."

his jaw shifts, like he's chewing over every possible argument left—and losing.

"ground rules," he bites out suddenly, pushing off the counter he'd been leaning against and straightening.

you blink, caught a little off guard. "ground rules?" you echo.

"if this is happening," he clarifies, gesturing vaguely between the two of you like it's still a questionable concept, "there are conditions."

a slow smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it. tilting your head like a dog, you cross your arms again, but this time it feels less like defense and more like anticipation.

"wow," you say, almost impressed. "you're gunna let me stay? i'm touched."

"don't be," he shoots back immediately. "I'm tolerating you."

"semantics."

he rolls his eyes, but there's something dangerously close to a smile threatening at the edge of it. "first rule," he starts, holding up a finger while taking a step closer to you. "you don't touch my stuff."

you can't help but to scoff. "I don't want to touch your stuff."

"good." dylan swallows.

"second rule," you counter before he can continue, lifting your own finger. "you don't get to kick me out the second I annoy you. you've agreed to let me stay, so you can't back out of that."

he takes another step forward, somehow looking a little intimidating even though he's actually kind of cute—in a completely platonic way or…whatever.

"third rule is don't be bringing a bunch of guys over here." when you roll your eyes, dylan practically scoffs out a laugh. "i'm serious, i'm a professional athlete and the last thing I need is your hookup fanboy-ing." 

"oh my god," you huff, "get over yourself."

"i'm very over myself." another step. not close enough to raise any eyebrows, but enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly so you can look at him properly.

god, when did he get so tall?

a beat passes before you agree. "fine. then you can't have girls over. ever." you say, even though there's no reason for you to have that preference. maybe you're just petty, maybe something else.

your eyes lock for a second—yours challenging, his narrowing just slightly.

then, he relents, "fine."

breaking the intense gaze, you glance toward the hallway again, that closed door, then back at him. "so," you clear your throat and take a step back. dylan blinks, moves back as well.

you nudge your suitcase forward with your foot, a hint of something lighter creeping into your tone, "which one's mine?"

he follows your gaze, then looks back at you, already regretting every decision he's made today. "end of the hall."

you nod once, satisfied, and then grab the sticky handle of your suitcase. and as you brush past him again—closer this time, easier—your shoulder knocks lightly against his.

you don't miss the way he goes still for half a second.

"you're welcome, by the way," you toss over your shoulder as you head down the hall.

"for what?" dylan calls after you, already sounding tired.

you don't turn around, but he can hear the smile in your voice. "making your life interesting again."

he doesn't respond, and that feels like a victory today. you don't spare dylan a glance before opening the door—your door—and promptly shuffling inside.

and then you let the mask fall. leaning back against the door, you let your head thud against the wood. because out of everything that could've happened with that fucking craiglist ad, this might just be the worse possible one.

─────

the first few weeks living with dylan settle into something that doesn't make sense on paper, but somehow weirdly works. I mean it's not smooth, or clean, by any means of the word, but you don't feel the need to rip his head off anytime you're in the same room. so there's that!

it probably has something to do with dylan being gone more often than he's not, just like he disclosed in the ad. road trips, back to backs, practices that bleed into flights—you learn this because he's got his schedule on the fridge, which is irritating for no reason other than him being weirdly punctual.

the day you arrived, you didn't leave your room until dylan knocked on your door a few hours later—you were ready to pull open the door an snap, but he was just gruffly letting you know to move your car so it didn't get towed. oh.

not think anything of it, when you came back inside, you left your keys on the counter. but the next morning when you got up to meet with your friends for breakfast, you found all your stuff from the backseat of your car in the living room. dylan got it out for you. you had been stopped in your tracks, because why was he being nice? maybe because he felt guilty for almost denying you a home the day prior.

whatever, neither of you have brought that up since. and that's because, once again, you don't really run into each other like normal roommates.

when dylan is home for a stretch, he'll stay in his room with the door shut. unless you're in your room, then he's in the living room, watching tv on a volume so low that there's no way he can actually hear it.

however—naturally—there's still some kind of hostile tension lingering between you and dylan when you do happen to interact. like a few days ago, when you came home from class and almost tripped over his hockey shit left at the front door. you told him to move it, he just snickered.

then yesterday, when you had a stare down for who got the first turn in the shower. which ended in dylan rushing in while your guard was down—and you retaliating by running the water in the kitchen, feeling very triumphant when he shouted in pain from the now scalding shower.

and just this morning, when you were both in the kitchen at the same time. him getting ready for practice, and you for an early seminar. dylan looked you over—from your leggings to your comfy hoodie and ponytail—and then asked if you wanted coffee. you said sure, and he just showed you were the pot was.

It should be annoying—and most of the time it is. because on top of everything, dylan likes to leave things where they don't belong. he still says things just to get a reaction out of you. always has that tone—that thing—that makes you want to argue even when you don't have the energy.

but there are moments. small ones.

like when you come home late from study group and the kitchen light is left on—not bright, just enough that you don't walk into total darkness. or when he wordlessly starts moving his gear out of the front entry way ever since you tripped over it. and the one time you fell asleep on the couch studying and woke up to a blanket that definitely wasn't there before.

it't weird—really fucking weird—but it's also kind of nice.

however, tonight is not one of the nice nights.

you'd been sleeping until your consciousness suddenly comes back to you. you take some sleep laced blinks until the reason you're even waking up in the first place registers.

there's some sort of noise, leaking under your door—low at first, then unmistakable. multiple voices, overlapping one another like a bunch of excited puppies. followed by laughter, maybe even a couple clinking beer bottles.

you frown through the dark room as you sit up in bed. for a second, you think maybe the tv is just too loud, but then someone whoops—loud, obnoxious, very much not a tv—and something thuds against a wall hard enough that you feel it faintly through the floor.

its gotta be dylan, you think. now you're not just frowning—you're scowling. "is he fucking serious?" you don't know what he's doing out there, but you're ready to tell him off for whatever it is.

its not that late, but you've had a long day and fell alseep like as soon as you got home around dinner time—and you've got an early morning ahead. dylan would know that if he actually looked at the stupid calendar on the fridge, which you now have also starting utilizing in some weird, petty kind of way.

with a determined grumble, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and a hand through your hair, still a little disoriented. even though, you haven't been asleep that long.

in one of your smaller sleep shirts and a pair of loose shorts that barely qualify as coverage, you stumble to the door and crack it open just as the noise spikes again. a chorus of voices this time. and yeah, definitely not the tv.

the house feels brighter than it should be at this hour. every overhead is light on, the glow spilling into the hallway. you can smell it too now—something fried, something salty, and the unmistakable hint of cheap lager.

realizing your roommate has people over a step too late, you freeze in the entryway to the living room. four—no, five guys, are scattered across the couch and floor, controllers in hand, a game paused mid screen. someone's leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink, another halfway out of his seat like he just got up.

and they all look up at the same time. right at you.

for a moment, you're annoyed that dylan didn't even have the decency to warn you about this, but then again, you'd do the same out of sheer pettiness—that is, if you had more friends than just luca.

there's a split second where your brain just... blanks. it's just you, standing there in the archway, very aware of how little you're wearing under the full attention of a room full of very surprised strangers.

"oh—" you start, already taking a small step back, heat rushing up your neck. "I didn't know—"

"jesus—" the familiar voice voice cuts in sharp. dylan.

you barely have time to register where he is sitting before he's already on his feet, movement quick, almost instinctive. he steps forward, not enough to make a scene, but enough to close the distance between you and them—subtle, but deliberate.

his hand finds your arm—not rough, not even firm, just there, fingers wrapping lightly around your elbow as he steers you a half step behind him.

your eyes lock, and your mouth parts with something unsaid. not so deliberately—almost subconsciously—dylan's eyes flicker down your body.

you immediately go warm all over.

"guys," he clears his throat after a moment, looking away from your gaze. his tone easy but edged in a way you recognize immediately, "this is y/n. my roommate. we know each other from back home."

there's a chorus of greetings that follow—half-awkward, half-curious. looking at the stats of these guys, you can assume they are also hockey players. thick thighs, broad shoulders—is that a missing tooth?

"hey."

"hi—sorry."

"didn't know—"

you manage a small, tight smile, crossing your arms instinctively and trying to ignore the way your skin suddenly feels too exposed under the bright lights.

"yeah, hi," you say, a little breathless. "I—um. I didn't realize you had people over."

"yeah," dylan mutters, just low enough that it's mostly for you, a hint of something apologetic slipping in. "that's on me."

his grip on your arm lingers a second longer than necessary before letting you go, but he doesn't move far. he stays just slightly in front of you, angled enough that you're not directly in the center of the room anymore.

one of the guys—tall, sitting on the couch and with the number 77 printed on his sweater—leans forward a little, offering an easy grin. "we didn't mean to ambush you," he says. "we just got back from—"

dylan cuts him off before he can finish. "yeah," it's not harsh, but firm enough that it redirects the attention onto him and away from your pebbled nipples. "she was asleep."

the guy nods, almost snickers to himself, and then sits back again. "right, yeah. sorry again." then everyone seemingly is done ogling you, because the game starts up again, just like the conversation.

dylan looks back at you.

you shift your weight under his gaze, suddenly hyper aware of everything—your bare legs, the way your shirt rides up slightly when you move, and how his teammates keep looking back between you like it means something. you almost want to shout out that you're not even friends, but you obviously don't.

"i'll just—" you gesture vaguely behind you, already stepping back. "i'm gonna go. I have an early morning."

"yeah," he says quickly, almost too quickly. then, softer, glancing down at you for a second, "sorry. we can keep it down."

you nod, brushing it off even though your cheeks are definitely still warm. "please do," you attempt to sound firm, but you don't.

turning away before it can any more awkward, you retreat down the hall a little faster than you mean to, heart still thudding lightly in your chest. the bedroom door barely gets hallway closed closed when you hear it—

"dude, she's hot." must be one of his teammates. "you hittin' that?"

then, dylan—"fuck you, no. we don't...we don't get along."

typical, you think, eyes already rolling before you can stop them. shutting the door quietly, you huff out a small breath, and let your head fall against the wood for a second.

because what just happened out there?

with noise still bleeding faintly through the wall—muffled laughter, the rise and fall of voices, and the low thud of bass from whatever game they've gone back to, your heart's still beating too fast for someone who was asleep ten minutes ago.

annoyance settles in properly now—sharp, clean, and way easier to deal with than whatever that other feeling was out there. "unbelievable," you mutter under your breath, pushing off the door.

you cross your room in a few quick steps, grabbing your phone off the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dim, your expression still tight as your thumbs move.

y/n

can you come here? now.

your stare at it for half a second before hitting send. the three dots don't appear right away—of course they don't.

you toss the phone onto the bed, immediately regret it, and pick it back up again, pacing once across your room. you tug at the hem of your shirt like it's suddenly too small, too thin, too everything.

your phone buzzes.

dylan

seriously?

your jaw tightens, thumbs dancing over the keyboard faster than lightning.

y/n

yes. seriously.

this time, his reply is quicker.

dylan

give me a sec

exhaling hard through your nose, you drop onto the edge of your bed. one second turns into two, then three, then long enough that your irritation starts to build again.

then—finally—a knock.

you're on your feet immediately, crossing the room and yanking the door open a little faster than necessary.

he looks...exactly like he did out there, which isn't a shock because it only took a few minutes until you started freaking out and demanding him to come to you—slightly flushed, hair a little messy like he's been running his hands through it, hoodie half zipped like he threw it on in a rush.

"hi," dylan says, like this is normal. like you didn't just get ambushed in your own house. if you knew any better, you'd probably think he's enjoying this.

you blink at him once. "are you serious right now?"

his brows pull together slightly. "what—"

"you caught me in a little bit of a daze out there," you cut in, keeping your vice low but sharp, stepping back so he can come in. "but don't think I don't know what you're doing here. you didn't text, you didn't knock, you didn't do literally anything to let me know there were five random guys in my living room."

"okay, they're not random—"

"they are to me," you snap, shutting the door behind him a little harder than necessary.

the sound cuts off the rest of the house almost completely. it's just the two of you now—your room dim, the only light coming from your bedside lamp.

dylan exhales, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. "okay, yeah maybe I should've sent you a text—" you let out an incredulous laugh. he ignores it, continuing, "—but I didn't do it on purpose."

but you're not buying it, and you roll your eyes right in his face. it makes him exhale, sharply, hands flexing at his sides.

a beat passes before he looks back at you, properly now like he didn't get the chance when you were half naked and mortified. you watch his gaze flick over your face, then—briefly, quickly—down again before he catches himself and looks back up.

you scoff, "are you checking me out?"

"what?" he splutters, making your irritation double. "no." then, as if on instinct, his eyes flicker over your figure again.

"you just did it again!" you point an accusing finger at him.

he runs a rough hand through his hair. "well, it's not my fault you're walking around wearing that."

"would you prefer a snow suit?"

"that's not—" dylan stops, presses his lips together, recalibrating. "you're twisting it."

you let out a short laugh that isn't really amused. "oh, I'm twisting it?"

"yeah," he says, more firmly now. "you are. I know I should've told you. I get it. I messed up. but you're acting like I did it on purpose."

at that, you find yourself hesitating for half a second. when you initially thought that maybe he did orchestrate this whole thing on purpose, you'd been seething with anger and just looking for an excuse to blame him. but now, you know that's probably not true. you and dylan don't get along, never have, but he wouldn't do something that cruel.

back when you were younger, he wasn't always picking on you. sometimes—only in a passing moment of weakness—dylan guenther would be kind to you, in his own…awkward way. like in the 5th grade when carlos and joe made fun of how your legs looked in your new jeans—which obviously made you cry—dylan took one look at your tears and then promptly punched them both in the gut.

then of course, on the first day of 7th grade you tripped walking inside from the yard, flat down in front of everyone. people laughed, pointed, and you were very much mortified. you don't know if dylan did it on purpose, but he walked into a flag pole almost immediately after, taking the attention away from you. knowing him though, he probably just wasn't paying attention, and it had nothing to do with you.

there was more times, more than you like to remember, and anytime dylan would stick up for you, or check in on you in his own messed up way, you'd feel a flicker of hope—hope that maybe things could be different between you. but then he'd pull your hair, or tell the boy you like something that would make him stop talking to you, and yeah, you'd get reminded exactly who dylan is.

"I didn't say that," you sigh, tired. "but you don't exactly make it better out there."

his dark brows pull tight. "what's that supposed to mean?"

you shake your head once, like you're trying to decide if you even want to go there. "the whole... thing. the 'she was asleep' comment, the—cutting your friend off like I was—what? some kind of problem you needed to manage?"

his expression shifts—confusion first, then something else you can't quite pin down. "I was trying to get them to chill out," he laughs, once. "they were staring."

"yeah," you mutter. "I noticed."

"and you think I liked that?" he shoots back, a little incredulous now.

that wasn't an answer you expected. here dylan is, trying to be some kind of protective over you, only to turn around and make it feel like it's somehow you're fault. you hate that it’s conflicting. you also hate how you don't hate it—or hate him.

"I don't know what you like," you say after a second, more defensive than you mean to be. "we don't exactly talk, remember?"

dylan goes still for a second, like the reminder lands. "right," he says, quieter.

you press your lips together, suddenly aware of how close he's standing. how small your room feels with both of you in it. the admission hangs there, heavy, and for another beat, neither of you move—just continue looking at one another, guards up, and the past sitting between you. you can feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere.

and then quieter, and almost reluctant, you continue, "from where I'm standing dylan, you're still the same guy who used to make my life hell for fun."

his face changes at that—subtly, but enough. the edge in him drops just a fraction, something more serious settling in its place. "I was a stupid kid.”

"so was I," you shoot back immediately.

"I know," he says finally, but it's not defensive. he sighs again, takes a step back like he's realizing he's too close, and rubs at his jaw—exhausted. "let's talk about this another day."

you eye him over, pulse kicking uncomfortably. because of course he's dismissing you. "right, whatever."

he says your name, quiet, but you ignore it, turning away from him and walking back towards your bed. "go back to your friends," you mutter eventually when you don't hear him make any move to leave. you eye him and gesture vaguely to the closed bedroom door. "make sure to tell them again how we don't get along."

hearing the words dylan told his teammates mere minutes ago spat back at him, instantly has a deep pang of guilt hitting him in the chest. especially because he didn't even mean it like that...he was just—it doesn't even matter.

"try to get some sleep, y/n," he says instead.

you almost roll your eyes. "yeah, i'll work on that."

that earns the faintest hint of a smirk. dylan reaches for the door, pausing just slightly before opening it. then, like he can't quite help himself, he calls your name again.

you look up from where you're sitting in the edge of the bed. you raise an inpatient brow, silently urging him to continue.

"you were never a problem," he says, quieter now.

your chest tightens, just a little. your mouth parts, wanting to say something, but nothing comes out.

after a second, dylan nods to himself and slips out, the door clicking shut behind him. and once he's gone, the room feels entirely too cold and quiet.

for a while, you just sit there, staring at the door like something else might happen—like he might come back to say something annoying. maybe undo whatever just happened between you. but he doesn't.

you throw yourself back, mattress dipping under your weight. but you're not tired anymore, not even close. because now, instead of being half asleep and annoyed, you're fully awake and stuck replaying everything.

the way dylan stepped in front of you.

the way his hand lingered on your arm.

the way he said I didn't like it.

"whatever," you mutter to absolutely no one. expect, it's not just whatever—it never has been.

this whole thing would be easier if it was.

─────

the next few days don't fix anything, mostly because dylan's gone again for a roadie. but something does...shift. he texts you on the first day, asking if you need any money for groceries. your initial response was to get mad, because how dare he try and give you handouts? but he almost immediately followed it up by explaining he used the last of a bunch of ingredients for his meal prep and that’s why he’d offering. you still declined the money, even though you can't really afford to.

a few hours later and insta cart shopper was dropping off a bunch of groceries.

you hated how that didn't grind your gears.

two days after that, the day after dylan was due to come home from edmonton, he called you. you'd answered tentatively—suspiciously—to which dylan just stuttered through asking if you've been shovelling the driveway or if he needs to do it when he gets home.

"yes," you hummed, still confused on to why he was calling you, rather than texting. especially considering he should've been indulging in a pregame nap right about then. "it's shovelled."

"okay," he had breathed. "thanks."

and that was pretty much it. he did try and ask about your day, but you got so weirded out by his niceties, that you spat out some excuse about needing the bathroom and hung up.

the week that follows, between practices and studying and the usual business of your lives, there are these...moments.

small ones, that slip in between everything else. like you’ll catching dylan already looking at you when you walk into a room. or him turning the volume down without being asked when you're in your room with the door open. brushing the snow off your car when he gets up first for practice.

none of it gets acknowledged, though. god, no. because that would require an actual conversation, and you're not there—because every time it almost gets too normal, or feels too easy, something in you pulls back. reminders you of who he is. or who he used to be.

and you see it in dylan, too, sometimes—that hesitation. like he's not sure how far he's allowed to go before you snap the line tight again.

so you circle each other instead. like quite like enemies. and definitely not like friends. but something in between.

which is...yeah.

you're hunched over the kitchen table when the front door unlocks and dylan walks in from his game. you barley register the sound, too locked in on the two textbooks open in front of you, along with piles upon piles of notes that are starting to blur together.

It's late—not quite midnight, but close enough that the city outside has softened into a low, steady hum. you've been trying to study for hours, key word trying. you've been in the same position for a while. leg tucked under you, shoulders hunched, pen tapping against the page in a rhythm that doesn't match anything except the anxious loop in your head.

you've reread the same paragraph for what has to be the fifth time, eyes dragging over the words without actually processing them. its just not sticking, which is almost as frustrating as the unknown with your roommate—who has know peered into the kitchen curiously, because this isn't like you. staying up late, not being able to handle study material.

you lean closer, brow furrowing, like proximity might force the information into your brain by sheer will. completely oblivious of how dylan is now watching you.

after a quiet beat, he steps closer, floorboard creaking under his socked feet. you register it distantly, like background noise.

"hey," he says, voice a little rough, probably from yelling during a scrum.

"mhm," you hum back, already halfway through another sentence you're not absorbing.

there's another pause. you can feel it, even if you're not looking. his attention shifts from your hunch, to the table, then around the kitchen like he's searching for answers he won't find.

then, he move closer, slower this time, like he's approaching a dangerous situation, which would make you scoff if you were paying attention. the kitchen light is the only one on, and it's bright—too bright—catching every messy detail of your study setup.

"have you moved?" he asks.

you frown slightly, pen still hovering over your notebook. "what?"

"since I left, like six hours ago."

that has you blinking, finally glancing up.

his hoodie only half zipped and hair slightly damp at the ends like he showered at the arena and didn't bother drying it properly, dylan is looking at you like he's...concerned. which can't be right, but there's a crease between his brows as his gaze flickers between you and the mess you've got spread out over the table.

"I went to meet with my study group," you say.

dylan gives you a deadpanned look. "that's not what I meant."

"why are you interrogating me?" you shoot back, squinting at him like he's personally offended you just by existing.

"i'm not," he says easily, leaning his hip against the counter. "i'm just concerned because I think you're going to give yourself scoliosis if you're hunched over any longer."

you snort, dropping your pen with a quiet clatter. "that's a big word for you, guenther. who taught you that?"

"must've caught it from your pile of notes, smarty pants—" he reaches out, quick as anything, and ruffles your hair like it's a completely normal thing you guys do. ruffle hair and hold hands and make fucking friendship bracelets.

"hey—" you smack his hand away, glaring up at him. "i'm trying to study. I have a midterm in two days and I need to cram, specifically without your comments."

you ignore him after that, looking away and flip another page. only to immediately regret it because now there's just more information staring back at you.

a beat passes, and then dylan tilts his head, eyes flicking between your still eyes and to your open book. "you're not even reading that."

you almost growl. "I can't with you hovering."

"i'm not hovering," dylan argues, pushing off the counter—but he doesn't actually leave. if anything, he steps closer. "even if I was, you've been on the same paragraph since I walked in."

you press your lips together, glancing down at the page like it might suddenly defend you. "okay, well maybe I need to read it a few times to stick."

"y/n," he says, softer now, but there's still that annoying edge of certainty in it. "i'm getting a headache just watching you. take a break."

there's something in the way he says your name that makes you look up again. you find him still watching you, and you sigh, exhausting creeping into the fight. "I can't. I need to pass this class."

"you will," he says immediately, like it's obvious. "you've always been like...the smartest person I know."

you huff out a laugh at that, leaning back in your chair just enough to look at him properly. "that's because you hang out with low IQ athletes."

"ouch," he winces, a hand coming up to his chest like you physically hurt him with that. you roll your eyes as he continues,"but true." then, without missing a beat, he nods toward your notebook. "close the book."

"what? no."

he's even closer now, standing on the other side of the table, one hand braced lightly against the back of a chair. not confrontational—just there. pestering you. "close it."

"are you deaf?" you scoff, "I just said no."

"fine," dylan shrugs, already reaching forward. "i'll do it."

"hey— get your hands off—" you lunge, but he's faster, snapping the book shut with a soft thump before you can stop him. your eyes are wide, and a little furious, when you meet his gaze again.

but he's completely unaffected, even smirking a little as he starts pushing the looose pens away from you, rolling across the table. "take a 5 minute break."

"I don't need a—"

"5 minutes," he cuts in, holding your book just out of reach like he knows you'll try again. "and then you can go back to staring at that same paragraph for as long as you want."

you glare at him, but it's weaker now. mostly because he's not entirely wrong, and you hate that more than anything. "god, you're annoying."

"yeah," he says, completely unbothered. "but i'll be even worse if you don't take this break for—" cuts himself off, a brief tense pause, "—for yourself."

you exhale, long and dramatic, letting your head fall back against the chair. "fine. 5 minutes."

"yeah," dylan nods, satisfied and then sets your book down on the far end of the table like he's putting it in time out. "that's it."

you turn your head, eyeing him as he moves deeper back into the kitchen, opening the fridge and peering inside. "so do my 5 minutes get to be peaceful," you squint, "or are you sticking around?"

he lets out a quiet, unamused laugh, putting his weight on the fridge door as he spares you a quick glance. "well, I was planning on eating something, if you wanted to have some food."

you make a face. "and eat your bland rice and chicken?"

"it's not bland."

"it's beige," you correct.

dylan rolls his eyes. "are you hungry or not?"

lips parting, you fully intended to deny his offer of pre made meals, but then your stomach growls, only loud enough for you to hear—but it's just as efficient in making you back peddle. your eyes dart between him, and then two containers in his hand.

"actually—" you push your chair back, standing and stretching, arms reaching up until your spine cracks slightly. "yeah, i'm starving."

for a moment, dylan is too busy eyeing the sliver of space between the top of your sweatpants and bottom of your baby tee. but then the fridge starts beeping, and he's reminded of everything around him.

it earns you a small, almost smug smile from him as he shuts the fridge with his free hand. "thought so."

the five minutes stretches longer than they should, and easier than they has any right to be. you end up perched on the counter while dylan pre-heats the food on the stove. all while you keep stealing bites out of the pan and pretending not to like it by critiquing the lack of flavour—even though it actually tastes really good.

your notes are forgotten under the soft hum of the apartment and the quiet rhythm the two of you fall into without thinking. and by the time you drift back to the table, the tension in your shoulders has loosened, your head a little clearer—though the space beside you feels noticeably less empty than it did before.

─────

it's the middle of the night, your room dim—because your forgot to turn your lamp out—and quiet, when a sharp crack splits through the silence—loud, sudden, and followed by the unmistakable drop of your mattress giving out beneath you.

you jolt awake, and it doesn't take long to realize what just happened. mostly because your mattress is tilted at a 90 degree angle now, which is great.

the bed groans as you attempt to sit up, staring down at the lopsided disaster beneath your sheets. "you've got to be kidding me."

you swing your legs over the side carefully, like sudden movement might make it worse. the frame tilts again in protest, and you immediately curse whoever crafted your $70 amazon frame. maybe you should've known better. whatever.

for a good few minutes, in your tiny pyjamas and on your hands and knees, you attempt to fix the broken slates that hold your mattress off the ground. stacking old textbooks and dirty laundry to attempt to level everything else, but to no avail.

"I need tools," your chest heaves from exertion, hands on your hips as you survey the mess. if you can find some sort of tool box in the house, maybe you can like nail the slates back together? you're not sure, but you do know you're going to try.

sneaking out of your room, you start the search.

five minutes later, the apartment is no longer quiet. drawers open with rolling force, and the close even firmer. open again. something metallic clatters onto the kitchen counter, echoing throughout the house.

"where the fuck does he keep tools?" you mutter to yourself, crouching to check under the sink like a hammer might just magically appear if you look hard enough.

you only find cleaning supplies, and a random screwdriver. "okay," you breathe, holding it up like it's somehow useful in this situation. "this could work."

you stand with a wave of determination, then immediately bump your hip into the counter with a dull thunk. "fuck me," you whisper.

"why do you have a screwdriver?"

you whirl around at the sound of dylan's deep, sleep laced voice. he's standing at the edge of the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, the other dragging down his face like he's been awake for exactly thirty seconds and already regrets it.

his hair is sticking up in every direction, sleep shirt wrinkled like he pulled it on sometime earlier and never fixed it. he squints between you and the tool in your fist.

"my bed broke," you say like that explains everything.

he blinks. "your—what?"

"my bed. it's, like, collapsing." you gesture vaguely toward your room, heart still racing from his impromptu appearance. "i'm gunna fix it."

"with a screwdriver?"

"yes," you grumble.

dylan makes a point of staring at you long and hard. "you don't even know what you're doing."

"excuse you," you shoot back, already defensive. you shake the screwdriver at him like a vindictive old man, making his eyes widen a fraction through the dark. "I can figure it out."

"at one in the morning?"

you snap, but there's not much of a bite considering, "so you want me to sleep on the floor?"

"I want you to stop making noise," he says flatly. you open your mouth to argue, and then hesitate. because yeah, maybe you shouldn't be making all this noise when dylan has to get up for practice.

and as if he can see the flash of guilt on your face, dylan sighs and takes a step towards you, almost cautiously likes he's not sure how his next move is going to go. "just—" he cuts himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. "just sleep in my bed."

that has you going still. "i'm sorry, what?"

he's already half turned back toward the hallway, like he said it and is hoping you won't make it a whole thing. but obviously you're going to.

"my bed," he clarifies, not looking at you. "it's fine. i'll take the couch or something."

you narrow your eyes at the back of his head, "you're not taking the couch."

footsteps falter before he's turning back on you. "why not?"

"because that's stupid," you say immediately. "it's your bed."

dylan just shrugs like he doesn't care, even though he clearly should. "it's not a big deal, y/n. c'mon it's late."

"It is a big deal," you counter. "i'm not kicking you out of your own bed because mine broke. you're being ridiculous."

he squints, confused but also like over it. "I offered."

"well, i'm declining." you tell him, even though that means you'll probably end up staying up trying to fix your own bed, or sleeping on the couch yourself. neither sounds the most ideal, not when you know dylan probably has one of those really expensive mattress that feel like marshmallow.

a brief lull, then you cross your arms, eyes cast downwards in a combination of mistrust and something that feels a lot like vulnerability. "why are you being nice to me anyways? you don't even like me."

it's a petty jab, but one that feels true nonetheless. and the second it leaves your mouth, the air between you thickens like oobleck. somehow solid yet liquified at the same time.

dylan stills. "what did you just say?" it's not defensive, or annoyed, just completely thrown—which throws you. you blink, caught off guard by the reaction.

"you don't like me."

"that's not—" he shakes his head once, like he's trying to reset. "that's not true."

you let out a shirt, disbelieving laugh. "yeah, okay."

"no seriously," he retorts, waving off your disbelief by taking another step closer to you. "that's not true."

you only cross your arms tighter, eyebrows lifting. "dylan you've been at my throat since I was like, eight."

"and you've been at mine since I was eight," he shoots back.

you tilt your head, unimpressed. "you started it."

"how did I start it?"

"you literally hid my barbie bike."

"because you kept leaving it unlocked," dylan fires back immediately. "anyone could've taken it."

"you took it!" you exclaim, throwing your hand out in his direction, as if trying to show him the problem is right there. aka: him.

"I brought it back."

"three days later!"

"yeah, so you'd remember not to do it again!" you just stare at him, unimpressed while he continues, "and it worked, did it not?"

"no," you drag out the word, "it made me think you were insane."

he huffs out a breath, pacing once across the living room now, restless energy creeping in, probably as well as frustration for the entire situation. "that my point," he breathes out like he can't stop the admission, gesturing vaguely in your direction as his pace comes to a halt. "it always came out wrong. still does...fuck."

you frown slightly. "what does?"

dylan swallows, adam's apple bobbing tightly beneath his skin. a beat passes where you think he might say whatever it is that you can see on the tip of his tongue, and you wait with folded arms and baited breath.

but he doesn't—instead, he lets out a long breath, keeps his gaze downcast as the moment fizzles. "nothing. just—" he cuts himself off, "—i'll grab my pillow and stay on the couch, okay? avoid the construction project at 1 a.m."

"wait." you blurt out, then immediately shut your eyes because—are you actually about to do this? you take a shallow breath as he looks back at you. "we can just...share your bed. I don't want to be the reason you're all stiff at practice tomorrow."

surprise is written all over his face, coupled with something else you can't quite decipher this late at night. "you want to share my bed?"

"no," you bite out quickly, like that should be obvious. "but it's a queen, right? we can hopefully survive." you're not even sure if you believe that, but that's not the point right now. right now, it's sleep.

eventually, dylan lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. "wow. you must be really tired to be saying this."

"not tired enough to break your mattress and then we both have to suffer," you shoot back with a sickly sweet smile, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

his mouth twitches, something almost amused slipping through. "that sounds dirty."

"don't make it weird."

"i'm not making it weird," he says, but there's a hint of a grin now, the tension from a minute ago easing just slightly. "you're the one offering to get in my bed."

you narrow your eyes at him. "i'm offering you a solution—you know, because you're the one who's suddenly wanting to be all chivalrous."

"right," he nods slowly, like he's humoring you. "a solution."

there's a beat—quiet, stretched thin—where neither of you move.

then he exhales, short and resigned, like he's already lost whatever internal argument he was having. "fine," he mutters, pushing a hand through his hair. "but if you kick, you're out."

"I don't kick."

"everyone who says that kicks."

"I don't," you insist, following him down the short hallway anyway.

immediately, it's weird. dylan's room is naturally darker than yours, and the only light is coming from the hallway, spilling in behind you before he nudges the door shut with his foot. it clicks softly, leaving you in that low, comfortable dim where everything feels a little too quiet and intimate.

you hover near the edge of the bed, watching dylan through the lack of light on the other side. he's remaking the sheets that he'd clearly been sleeping in before you woke him up with you banging around. you're hit with a pang of guilt again about that, now slowly growing because you're crashing in his bed.

he's pulling back the covers like this is the most normal thing in the world, even though his shoulders are just a little too tense.

absentmindedly, you start gnawing on the skin around your thumbnail.

dylan catches it, and shoots you a soft yet firm look. "it's just sleeping, relax."

you squint, a little incredulous. "just because you have girls in your bed all the time doesn't mean it's not weird for me," you shoot back, arms folding tighter across your chest as you hover, not moving an inch closer to the bed. feet planted on the floor.

he freezes for a second, brows pulling together. "when have you ever seen me bring a girl in here?"

short answer, you haven't. you lift a shoulder, unimpressed, even as your gaze flicks briefly around his room like it might somehow prove your point. "you probably sneak them in."

"what—" dylan lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face because even he knows you're just bullshitting to bullshit. "you've known me for years...when have I ever been sneaky?"

your eyes narrow immediately, like you've been waiting for that. "do I need to bring up my bike again?"

he groans, head tipping back toward the ceiling for a second.

you just stare at him.

after a beat, he exhales hard through his nose, clearly losing this, and points sharply at the bed. "y/n, get in the bed."

there's a beat where you hold his gaze, stubbornness flaring one last time—before you finally roll your eyes and move, muttering under your breath as you slip between the sheets.

the mattress dips again as dylan follows suit next to you. there's a solid stretch of silence as you both settle into the bed. you stare straight up at the ceiling like it's suddenly fascinating. and so that you also don't lose an internal battle and look at him.

there's space between you, but can feel him there anyway—heat, presence, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing that you're suddenly very aware of.

you go to make a joke about him snoring, but you know from sharing cabin B during 5th grade summer camp that he doesn't. you remember that week vividly, and finding out you'd have to share a space with your nemesis felt like the end of the world. if only younger you could see you now—not only living with him, but sleeping in the same bed.

jesus.

your eyes slowly adjust to the dark, the outline of the room coming into focus—the dresser, the chair in the corner, the faint glow of his phone on the nightstand.

you roll slightly onto your side without thinking. "dylan?"

you're met with silence for a minute, and you're not sure if he's going to respond. or if he's awake. but then the bedding ruffles as he turns to face you as well.

he exhales gently, "what?"

"thank you," you murmur, quiet enough that you're not even sure he hears it. it's a thanks not just for tonight, but for letting you stay here in the first place, and for at least trying to change the hostility between you. lord knows you haven't made it easy.

there's a pause, then, just as soft as the heart beat thumping in your ear, he mutters—"go to sleep y/n."

and you do.

───── 1 month later

things after the whole...sharing a bed with your childhood nemesis turned unexpected roommate, turn into something you don't really have the words for. you're definitely not friends with dylan—he still drives you up the wall, and you argue with one another like you're still kids throwing sand in a sandbox—but you're definitely civil.

which is a complete inner shock to your system. so much so that you've called your mom 10 separate times since that moment to just...replay about the entire situation over and over again.

and then there was the whole thing with him being the one to fix your bed while you were at class the very next day, and you walked in just as his shirt ridden up enough to give you a front row seat to his abs and the dark trail of hair disappearing below his boxers. and that wasn't even the problem—the problem was you thought he looked...hot.

your mom got a panic call about that revelation too.

and now, everytime you run into each other in the hall, or in the morning making coffee, or simply just in passing leaving the house, you're hit with that reminder that you know think dylan guenther is attractive.

it's plagues most of your thoughts. even now, sitting at the kitchen table where you're very much supposed to be going over cue cards for a test, you're thinking about him at his game—is he all sweaty and heaving chest right now? did he maybe get into a pushing and shoving match, bust his lip...blood dripping down like some kind of sexy vampire—

your phone buzzes rhythmically against the table and you jump. the highlighter you'd be dragging against a card in slow, uneven lines—more out of habit than focus—falls next to the phone.

you almost ignore it, because it's an unknown number. your eyes flick over it once, twice. it buzzes again, insistent, and something in your stomach twists—subtle, and unknown but enough—and before you can talk yourself out of it, you reach for it.

"hello?"

"hello—uh, is this y/n?" there's noise behind the voice, and not just usual sitting in a restaurant background chatter. you can hear the roar of fans leaving a building, and medical tape being ripped off the roll, and your heart stops.

"um, yes. who's this?"

"this is JJ," he tells you, "I play with dylan. we've met before, a few weeks ago. you know the whole pyjama thing—" he pauses, as if you're going to laugh, but your heart is in your ass. so you just wordlessly wait for JJ to continue.

he clears his throat, maybe a little awkwardly. "always. don't tell him I told you this, but he asked me to call you—he's fine, just—he took a hit during the game. he's definitely a little banged up, and they're sending him home instead of the hospital."

"I—what?" you push out, already standing without realizing it, chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "Is he okay?"

"yeah, yeah," the guy says quickly, like he hears it in your voice. "nothing broken, but his ankle is sprained pretty badly. I can bring him home, but l need your help getting him inside."

you press your eyes shut, free hand coming up to your forehead, trying to slow the sudden rush of thoughts. "okay," you breathe, forcing it steady. "yeah, okay. i'm home so just, text me or something when you're here."

JJ, supposedly, answers immediately. "yeah that be great. we will be there within the hour."

you don't go back to your notes. they sit there, open and abandoned, highlighter bleeding into the same sentence you've read three times already.

you're at the door before you even hear anything, pacing once, twice, like you can't settle into your own space anymore. every sound outside makes your head snap up—voices, the hum of an engine, lights driving past—none of them his.

minutes keep dragging in a way that feels like a personal attack. when you're not checking the front door, you're looking at your phone. but the screen stays stubbornly silent. you try sitting, but you last maybe ten seconds before you're back on your feet again, pacing a line into the hardwood between the couch and the door.

you're too worried about the possible state of dylan to chill out. which you're trying not to think about that revelation—you're already going through the whole finding him hot now thing. or maybe you always have. fuck.

headlights finally sweep across the front window, and your body reacts before your brain does. not waiting for the text JJ said he'd send you, you're immediately pulling open the door before the car can fully stop in the driveway. 

JJ is halfway out of the driver's seat, already circling the car, and then you spot dylan through the passenger seat window—and then you get a proper view when the car door is open.

he's slumped a little in the seat, one arm braced awkwardly against the door as he tries to shift himself upright. there's a stiffness to the way he moves that doesn't belong to him—careful and measured, like every inch has to be negotiated first. his hair is damp with sweat, pushed back messily, and there's a flush high on his cheekbones that doesn't look like exertion anymore.

you move down the snow dusted steps towards them.

"hey," jj calls to you, but it's soft, like he's aware of the way your entire focus locks onto dylan. "we made it."

"y/n—hey, don't—" dylan starts, a weak attempt at something light, but it cuts off the second he tries to put weight on his foot. he lets out a quiet, yet disgruntled, noise in the back of his throat.

it hits you like a punch. "okay, nope," you cut in immediately, stepping closer, hands hovering for half a second before settling—one at his arm, the other steadying his side. "don't be an idiot. just lean on me."

there's a flicker of something in his expression—protest, maybe pride—but it doesn't last. not when his smile is on fire, and especially not when you're looking down at him with a certain kind of softness that makes his stomach pull tight.

"yeah," his teammate mutters, coming up on his other side and effectively breaking the intense eye contact between you. "what she said."

between you and JJ, you get dylan upright. it's slow and clumsy with his weight heavier than usual. his arm comes around your shoulders almost automatically, muscle memory, but it lands tighter than usual—like he needs the support more than he wants to admit.

"sorry," he breathes, low, near your ear. "didn't mean to—"

"stop talking," you say, quick but not harsh. your grip tightens slightly at his side. "let's just focus on getting inside."

the walk to the door is short, but it feels longer with the way dylan limps through it, each step uneven. you're hyper aware of everything—the hitch in his breathing, the way his fingers flex once against your shoulder, the careful way JJ keeps pace on the other side.

shit, he must be in a lot of pain, you think.

once you get him up the stairs and inside, you and JJ guide him straight to the couch, easing him down as gently as you can. dylan exhales the second he's off his feet, head tipping back against the cushions, and eyes squeezing shut for a brief second like he's been holding that in the entire time.

JJ lingers a second, rubbing the back of his neck when you meet his gaze. "trainer wrapped it," he says, nodding toward dylan's ankle. "ice, elevation, meds and all that."

"thanks," you manage, glancing back at dylan just long enough for JJ to realize you mean it. "for bringing him home. do you want me to call you an uber?"

"no, you're good. I already did." he gives his teammate one last look, something knowing passing over his face. "gunner, text if you need anything." he looks back at you, "you too, y/n."

you thank him again, weakly, and then JJ is gone, front door clicking shut behind him.

its quiet when you step closer to the couch, slow under dylan's gaze. he must've opened his eyes while you weren't looking, because they're fixed on you now—tired, a little unfocused, but there despite all that.

"hi," he says, softer than before. but you can feel the pain and disappointment in them.

"hi," you echo, your voice coming out quieter than you expect. there's a beat where you're eyes fight to stay on just one thing, flickering between his and his wrapped ankle. "how are you feeling?"

he sniffles, not upset, just...full. "like some big fucker fell full force onto my foot."

you huff out something that's almost a laugh, but it doesn't quite land. your hands hover again, unsure, before settling carefully near his ankle, not touching yet. "can I look?" you ask, nodding toward it.

he nods once.

you're gentle when you finally move—peeling back the edge of the wrap just enough to check, fingers light, cautious. it's already swelling, angry and tight under the tape, and you feel your jaw clench without meaning to. you know his staff know what they're doing, but looking at dylan's ankle right now, you're not sure how this is just sprained.

"hey," he murmurs, catching the shift in your face. it makes you glance up. "i'm okay. don't freak out."

your eyes search his for a second, like you're trying to decide if you believe him. "i'm not freaking out," you force out the reply, even though it's a lie.

he gives you a knowing look, one that feels like too much. it makes your breath hitch before you force yourself away, already thumbing over your shoulder, vaguely gesturing towards the kitchen.

"i'll get you ice." you tell him, already walking away.

when you return with a makeshift ice pack, dylan half expects you to just rest it against the bone of his ankle and then leave—maybe sit on the couch if you're feeling generous enough to keep him company. but you take it one surprising step further by holding the ice there for him, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the coffee table. than again, maybe it's not a surprise, because you've always cared deeply about others...even him.

he winces—just slightly—at the cold, toes flexing near your arm.

"hold still," you murmur, reaching out without thinking to rub his shin in a soft, soothing way.

and dylan lets you.

—

you don't realize how much a sprained ankle actually affects until you're watching dylan try to exist with it. everything becomes slower, more deliberate. getting up from the couch takes planning. walking to the kitchen is a process. even just shifting his leg wrong earns that quiet, sharp inhale he tries to hide.

and you notice every single hitched breath and tightly pulled expression.

"stop hovering," he muttered at one point, not even looking at you as you trailed half a step behind him on the way to the bathroom that very first night.

"i'm not hovering," you shot back immediately.

dylan just glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifted. you were close enough that if he stopped suddenly, you'd walk right into him.

"...you're hovering."

you open your mouth, then close it. "i'm just supervising," you corrected, a little weaker that time.

he snorted, but it softened into something quieter when he reached the counter and needed to grip it for balance. you had stepped in without thinking—hand steady at his elbow, grounding more than guiding.

dylan doesn't shrug you off. and that becomes your pattern.

by the third day, you've figured out some sort of rhythm when it comes to him and the injury. you'll move things without asking—shift a chair here, clear a path there, bring what he needs before he has to go looking for it. you always have pillows stacked on the couch, so that his leg stays elevated properly, even when he inevitably slouches down and pretends he doesn't care.

"you don't have to do all this," he tells you the first time you hand him his meds, a glass of water already waiting in your other hand.

"good thing I want to, then," you reply, like it's obvious.

dylan hesitates—just for a second, eyes flickering all over your face, searching—before taking the meds. "still," he mutters, but it lacks any real argument.

but you always make sure the meds are delivered into the palm of his hand on time.

cooking is where he pushes back the most.

"seriously?" he says the first time you set a plate down in front of him. "you made...all of this?"

"it's pasta," you deadpan, dropping into the chair across from him. "relax."

"there's like—sautéed vegetables in this."

you could only snicker at his surprised, "don't sound so shocked, dylan. you'll start to hurt my feelings."

"I am shocked," he shoots back, eyeing the plate like it personally offended him. "you had school today."

"and?" you shrug, reaching for your own fork. "I can cook and go to class. multitasking. very advanced skill."

he just watches you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face. "you didn't have to do this," he continues, a little reserved but laced with gratefulness, "you should be studying. I don't what to be a burden"

you don't roll your eyes, but you're close to. "and I can. after."

dylan looks down at the plate after that, jaw shifting slightly before he takes a bite. you pretend not to watch for his reaction, even though you absolutely are.

"it's good," he admits after a second.

"wow," you say flatly, twirling some pasta between the pronges of your fork. "high praise."

the faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, "don't let it go to your head."

retaliation is brushing your socked foot against his good ankle, and that says more than anything words could.

about a week after the initial injury, you're cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, late, while dylan's stretched out on the couch, the tv playing something neither of you is really paying attention to, ankle already up because you made sure of it.

"you missed your calling, you know," he teases suddenly.

you glance over your shoulder, thanksgiving themed dish cloth in your hand. "as?"

"live-in nurse."

you snort. "you'd be the worst patient i'd ever have."

"hey," he protests, shifting slightly. "I say thank you."

"after you complain," you point out, but there's a lightness in your tone that warms the space between you.

his perfect grin widens. "that's part of the charm."

after making a show of rolling your eyes—making dylan chuckle—you turn back to the sink, but you're smiling a little, and he can hear it in your voice when you answer. "yeah, well your charm is overwhelming."

he doesn't say anything to that. a few minutes pass before you turn off the water and dry your hands off on your sweats. you don't even think about going to your room, not like you would've a few weeks ago. instead, you drop down onto the couch beside dylan, tucking your legs under yourself out of habit.

dylan shifts, just slightly, making room without being asked. both of you various of his propped ankle.

your shoulder brushes his, and instead of freezing up, neither of you move.

somewhere in the quiet, in between the routine and the teasing and the way taking care of him has started to feel less like something you're doing for him and more like something you're doing with him—something between you settles.

and whatever this is—it's not just civil anymore. not even close.

you fall asleep on the couch together, your head on his strong shoulder and his head resting on the top of yours. even in your sleep, your carefully tucked against him, careful of his injury—and even in dylan's sleep, he'd throw everything into the wind and keeps you from straying.

—

it's two days later that everything truly turns on its axis.

you're going through and editing an essay you've been absolutely working your ass off to get done before tomorrow—when you'll go over it again with your study group—when a sound thumps down the hall. more specifically, the bathroom where dylan is showering.

it's not loud or dramatic, but it also doesn't sound like a bottle of shampoo falling to the floor. it sounds wrong in a way your brain catches before you can explain it—a sharp disruption in the steady rhythm of water against tile. something—someone—slipping.

"shit," you curse, not thinking before pushing away your laptop and making your way down the hall. "dylan?" knocking gently against the closed door, you call his name, only to be met with silence.

naturally, your stomach plummets.

you don't bother knocking again—not when you're thinking the worst. a half crippled brick of a man slipping in the shower? god, he could've cracked his head open.

the door swings open too fast, because he never locks it, thankfully—the handle hitting the wall with a muted thud as steam rushes out in a thick, suffocating wave. it clings to your skin instantly, blurring your vision for half a second, turning everything soft and indistinct.

"dylan—?"

"y/n, fuck."

then you see him. he's on the floor of the shower, one hand braced flat against the tile, the other gripping the edge of the tub so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. his leg with the injured ankle is bent at an angle that makes your chest tighten, hovering just off the ground like even the suggestion of pressure would be too much.

water pours over him, relentless—soaking his shoulders, dripping from his hair in uneven rivulets that trace down his jaw and neck.

"shit—" you're moving before you realize it, bare feet slipping slightly through the condensation soaked tiles. "what happened? are you okay?"

"i'm fine," he says too quickly and too breathless for that to be the truth. its the kind of fine that isn't fine at all.

your eyes scan him automatically—quick, efficient. no blood, and no obvious injury beyond what you already know. in one sudden blink, you seem to remember—and physically note—dylan is naked. which is obvious, but it flusters you instantly.

but the way he's holding himself, the rigid set of his shoulders, the careful way he keeps his ankle lifted is enough for you to snap out of it.

"don't move," you say, dropping down beside him without hesitation. the closer you get, the more you can see this is killing him. the strain is clearer now, seen in tightness in his jaw, the faint tremor in his arm from holding himself up, and the shallow way he's breathing like he's trying not to let it show.

your hand hovers for a second before settling lightly on his forearm. "did you twist it?" you ask, softer now.

dylan exhales through his nose, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "yeah. just—fucking slipped. tried to catch myself and—" his voice cuts off, jaw tightening again like even explaining it frustrates him. and knowing him, you have no doubt that re injuring his ankle is definitely not ideal. not when he's biting to get back onto the ice.

you nod, more to yourself. "okay. okay." it's not okay. but you say it anyway.

the water keeps running because you don't even think about turning it off, splashing against your sleeve, soaking through the fabric until it clings cold against your skin.

"can you stand?" you ask, glancing into his eyes.

he lets out a short breath—almost a laugh, but there's no humor in it. "I mean... I can try, but that feels like a terrible plan."

a small exhale slips out of you. "yeah," you murmur. "let's not do terrible plans."

for a second, everything stills. just the sound of water, your thumping heartbeats and the both of you caught in that in-between moment where the only thing you see is each other.

"i'm—" he starts, and stops. his expression shifts before looking away, something unfamiliar flickering across it. expect it's not just pain, it's also embarrassment. "this is kind of pathetic," he says, quieter now, throat bobbing as he swallows. "you wouldn't be wrong if you laughed."

you can understand why he would feel embarrassed. dylan has always been cool and confident and loud—but right now he's vulnerable. naked and hurting, with only you to help him. regardless, your brows pull together immediately. "hey—no."

he huffs faintly, shaking his head, water flicking from his hair. "I'm serious. I can't even shower without wiping out. thats—"

you cut him off, "I would never make fun of you for needing help, dylan." that comes out firmer than anything else you've said to him, and it's enough to stop him.

dylan looks at you then—really looks at you. and whatever he had lined up next fades out before it can reach his mouth.

you ignore that. your grip on his arm tightens just slightly. you let out a slow breath to steady yourself, "alright. we're gonna get you up, okay?"

he can only nod.

carefully, you move closer, one arm sliding around his back, and your other hand bracing at his side. the heat of the shower wraps around both of you, thick and close, the space shrinking until it feels like there's nothing outside of this moment—just the two of you and the steady rush of water.

"lean on me," you murmur, trying not to think of how this feels oddly familiar to a few days ago when this just happened. expect this time, your hands are on his wet, naked body...which is a lot.

dylan doesn't hesitate, hand coming up to your shoulder, gripping tighter than usual, long fingers pressing info you as he shifts his weight. he curses.

"i've got you," you say again, softer this time, like you're trying to soothe him.

together, you move slowly. guiding him up inch by inch, his balance uneven but manageable with you there. his breath catches once—sharp—when his ankle shifts wrong, or maybe it's because your hands slipped dangerously down his front.

you get him upright, then out of the tub.

water drips everywhere in your wake, pooling on the tile as you step onto the bath mat. by the time you stop, both of you are damp—your clothes clinging, his grip still firm on your shoulder like he hasn't quite convinced himself he doesn't need it.

you help lean him against the vanity, and then your eyes meet once he's somewhat settled. you don't pull away—can't even if you wanted to—because you and dylan are close. there's barely any space between you, his baked body pressed to your soaked through one.

just warmth, locked gazes, and the slow rhythm of both of you trying to catch your breath.

"sorry," dylan says, even though he's not sure for what.

you shake your head immediately. "stop apologizing."

you might imagine it, but you're pretty sure his eyes flicker down to your lips. just for a second.

"I mean it," he breathes, "you didn't sign up for this."

"I kind of did," you say after a beat, meeting his eyes as you bite back all the nerves climbing up your throat. "the second I decided I care about you."

between you, something snaps. dylan stills. the embarrassment fades, replaced by something warmer. something more open than he usually lets himself be. "yeah?" he murmurs, a little struck.

"yeah." your fingers adjust slightly against his arm, not pulling away—just settling, like they belong there. for a moment, neither of you moves, sitting with how something's finally being acknowledged instead of avoided between you.

then, gently, you nod toward the hallway. "come on. let's get you sitting before you prove me right about the terrible plans."

that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh from him, warm against the space between you. "alright," he says.

by the time everything settles down again, you end up on opposite ends of the couch, the TV on low more for noise than anything else. dylan dozes at some point—dressed now, thankfully—his head tipped back, breathing slow and even.

you don't move when it happens. don't dare risk it. not when you know he's gotta be up early for his doctors appointment tomorrow.

when you finally do get up—turning off lights, grabbing your things—his eyes briefly flicker open, finding you through the dim light.

"wake me if it gets worse," you murmur as you settle down beside him. you're not even sure if he hears you, but then he moans out and that feels like a response.

—

"i'll be back after your appointment," you tell him the next morning, too half of a bagel in your mouth as rush out the door. your study group is meeting early this morning, to go over your essays for last minute tweaks before they get handed in that afternoon.

you continue, "but text me how it goes."

dylan hobbles towards you, holding the door open for you with a flat palm. it's so simple that it shouldn't make your heart soar, but it totally does.

despite the lingering pain in his ankle, he grins down at you—bright eyes and round cheeks. "I will," he smiles, voice slow in that syrupy kind of way that feels deeper than it should. "i'll see you later, yeah?"

you nod, almost shy as you look up at him. this feels like the part where you should say something else, or maybe even lean up and brush a kiss to his cheek. but you chicken out last minute, instead just sending him another smile.

"see ya." and then you're gone, not looking back over your shoulder even though you can feel him watching you leave.

—

your study group is the same as always—same table, same scattered notes, same low buzz of conversation—but your focus keeps slipping. you reread the same paragraph three times, miss half of what someone's explaining about citations, and you lee checking your phone more than you want to admit.

unfortunately, there's no messages from dylan. you try not to let that worry you, but you figured it slipped his mind.

at one point, luca leans over, her hair tickling your arm as she lowers her voice. "are you good?"

your eyes snap to hers. "yeah, just, waiting to hear from dylan. he had his follow up appointment for his injury this morning."

all she does is waggle her eyebrows in a suggestive way at that, which makes you duck your chin to hide a growing smile.

by the time you pack up, it's well passed the time dylan's appointment was set to be over with, and you still haven't heard anything from him.

is he okay?

did his phone die?

maybe he got caught up with cooley, who was driving him there and back.

without wanting to waste anymore time wondering and ultimately, worrying, you pack up all your stuff and make your way to the bus stop, wanting to get home and hopefully, have all your questions answered.

the bus ride feels longer than it should, mostly because you reaches out—a simple hey, how's it going?—and we're still met with silence. well, that's not completely true. you know dylan sees it because it gets left on read, and that only worries you more.

and by the time you're unlocking the front door, your cuticles are a raw mess and throbbing.

"dylan?" you call out as you walk inside the home, toeing off your shoes. the front door clicks shut behind you with a soft, familiar sound.

you see his nikes then, kicked off messily, and know that he's home. but despite that, you don't get an answer from him. it's quiet, too quiet.

with your brows drawn inwards to your nose, you walk further, towards the living room. and instantly, you spot him. he's sitting on the couch, but not like usual. he's not stretched out, or half relaxed with his leg propped the way you've made routine.

he's got one elbow on his thighs, head dropped down in a way that screams defeat. his other hand holds his phone, but he's not even scrolling—like he's forgotten it's even there.

your eyes flick over his tight jaw, and even tighter shoulders.

something in your chest dips. the brief flare of anger you felt a moment ago—knowing he'd definitely saw your text and ignored you, coupled with him blatantly not answering you just now—disappears. instantly, you know something isn't right.

"hey," you say softly, stepping closer. "you okay?"

dylan doesn't look up, nor does he answer right away. he lets your question hang there. "yeah." he says, completely flat...maybe even, dismissive of you. which you wouldn't of question a few weeks ago, but you were sure you've made progress. right?

you hesitate—but only for a moment. maybe it's because you like, like him, but you're still assuming this is something small, something fixable. and oh, how wrong you are.

"okay," you murmur, nodding a little to yourself. "well, i'm gonna make something quick—do you want anything? I was thinking like, sandwiches with some pasta salad or—"

"I don't need you to make me anything, y/n," dylan's voice is sharp, cutting through the air before you can even finish. "I don't want your fucking help."

you blink, surprised. "what?"

finally, he looks at you. there's something sharp in his expression—frustration, edged with something heavier, something you don't quite recognize at first.

"I said I don't want your help," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I don't fucking need it. it's really starting to piss me off."

your stomach drops. "I—okay," you start slowly, trying to recalibrate. "I was just asking if you wanted something to eat. there's no need to get all—"

"I can make my own food," he snaps, interrupting you again. and the edge in his voice hits harder this time. "god, i'm not useless, y/n, so stop acting like i'm some charity case you can fix."

you straighten slightly, caught off guard. "I don't think that."

"then stop acting like it," he shoots back, jaw tightening. "you're always—hovering, or fixing something, or bringing me stuff like I'm useless. it's getting old."

"I have never—" you start, but your voice catches slightly. you swallow, trying again. "i've been helping you because I care about you, dylan," you continue, your voice steadier now, even if it feels like it's being pulled tight. "not because I think you're incapable of doing things on your own."

"yeah, well I didn't ask you to," he mutters. then, to push the imaginary dagger deeper into your chest, dylan's jaw tightens, tendons flexing underneath his stubble, and looks you dead in the eye. "I don't fucking want you here."

oh.

for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, like you're waiting for him to take it back. but he doesn't.

the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable now.

"good to know," you manage to mutter, tears brimming your waterline and threatening to fall. because out of all the years and pettiness you and dylan have shown each other, nothing has felt like this moment.

you turn before he can say anything else, heading back toward the door, movements quicker than before—sharper. you grab your bag, barely registering the way your hands shake slightly as you sling it over your shoulder.

"where are you going?" he asks, something shifting in his voice now—but it's too late for regret now.

"you don't want me here," you repeat, voice wobbly as you refuse to look at him. knowing that if you do, you'd surely start sobbing. "so i'll leave."

he says your name, reserved. tries to get up but the pain in his ankle makes him buckle over, and he lets out an uncomfortable hiss.

you force yourself to not check on him. instead, you walk back out the front door with tears streaming down your cheeks.

the silence that follows is immediate, naturally. deafening without needing to say so.

dylan doesn't know what to do at first. he's still hunched over exactly where you left him—your words echoing back at him in a way that feels sharp. almost as hurtful as what he said to you.

his jaw tightens and he drops his head. "shit."

he didn't mean to snap at you, would never even dream of it. but the news he'd received from the teams doctor today had don't nothing but altered his entire day, if not week.

the doctors voice had been calm and clinical as he explained the situation—how his ankle was worse than they originally thought, and how there's been a decline since the initial injury. how the rest of the regular season isn't a likely outcome for dylan anymore.

it had been utter defeat, and anger, and above all, a feeling a hopelessness he won't be able to shake for a little bit.

and when you walked in, already assessing him, asking all sweetly and concerned if he wanted something to eat—that anger came rushing back in full force, and he just snapped.

another reminder that he's useless right now. to the team, to himself, and to you.

"fucking hell," he drags a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. because he knows he messed up big time with you, and knows that after all you've done for him, you don't deserve that.

because despite when his anger took over and he was spitting that nonsense, dylan does appreciate you. he does need you. and he absolutely wants you.

his gaze flicks toward the door, like he expects you to walk back through it any second. obviously, you don't, and dylan can't even blame you.

with as much strength as he can muster, he shifts forward and push himself up slightly. his ankle screams in protest from the shift of weight, but he pushes through it. because it's not just about him anymore, maybe it never has been.

ankle be damned right now. all he can focus on are your tears, the crack in your voice, and how he's going to fix his own mistake.

─

your professor dismisses the class in his usual monotone voice. it's followed by the rise of conversation, zippers closing and textbooks snapping closed as everyone gets ready to leave.

two girls behind you are loudly discussing how they think they did on their essays—one thinks she's nailed it, the other says she flunked. beside you, luca watches you carefully. she can tell something is up, but you don't mention the fight with dylan.

it's still fresh, and anytime you think about it, you start to tear up. thankfully when it happened during the lesson, she just wordlessly passed you some kleenex.

you zip your own bag and sling it over your shoulder as people start filtering out.

"text me if you need the notes," luca tells you quietly, slipping her laptop in her purse.

"yeah, thanks." you smile, but it doesn't meet your eyes. making your way down the stairs of the lecture hall, you don't waste anytime in leaving the room, looking forward to getting home and into bed to wallow in your tears.

hopefully, he's in his room and not lingering in the living room—waiting to reel you out even further.

you exhale and walk out, only to be met with a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall outside the lecture hall. and your stomach drops.

dylan is wearing the same thing has earlier, which isn't a surprise because it hasn't been that long. he's got on a thick black coat now, unzipped so his gray hoodie is peeking out. a set of crutches are beside him, which you don't see in the house earlier. but then again, you'd been a little bit distracted.

his eyes find yours almost instantly, because he's been waiting here for you. longer than he'd like to admit.

there's a second where neither of you moves. then, he straightens slightly, grabs one of his crutches and hobbles over to you.

you swallow, adjusting your grip on your bag. you hate how you want to immediately check in on him—clearly his doctors appointment didn't go well considering he's got accessories now.

"what are you doing here?" you ask instead, keeping your voice low out of habit. students filter out all around you, but neither of you are paying attention.

dylan stops a few feet away, weight uneven as he steadies himself on the single crutch. up close, you can see him better—the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw keeps flexing like he's holding something back, the faint flush in his cheeks that isn't just from the weather.

"i'm here because I fucked up," he says, a little breathless like it's been sitting heavy for awhile. eyes search yours, a little frantic before he continues, "and i'm sorry"

your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. "how long have you been here?" you ask, ignoring everything else.

but dylan doesn't seem to mind, answering you without a doubt. "about an hour. but it doesn't matter," a self induced pause, he runs a weak hand through his messy hair. "i'm so sorry, y/n"

an hour? your stomach twists at that, eyes flicking briefly to the bench nearby, the concrete ledge, the floor he must've paced—well, as much as he can pace—waiting. no doubt, students sneaking pictures because dylan guenther is on campus.

you swallow roughly, throat tight with lingering emotion, "for what? yelling at me, or telling me to get out?"

"both." another step closer. "all of it. I got bad news from the doctor, and i'm out for the rest of the season and I just...I'm useless."

the word lands heavy. it doesn't fit him—never has. and hearing him say it—so easily, like he's already convinced himself it's true—makes something in your chest pull tight. because no matter what, you hate to see the man in front of you feel like that.

you sigh, a little reserved but no less meaningful. "you're not useless, dylan."

"I am. fuck," his hand falls helplessly to his side while he briefly tilts his head back, sitting with his own emotions from today. "I can't even shower on my own. getting here was like, a whole thing, even with these things now." he shifts slightly, the crutch scraping faintly against the ground. his eyes find yours again, "and when you walked in and asked if I wanted food, I was just reminded of just how useless I am right now. but I shouldn't of taken it out on you"

there's frustration in his voice, but it's not directed at you anymore. it's turned inward, sharp and relentless. and now you know that it was never about you.

"no, you shouldn't of." you mumble, but there's a little bit of playfulness in your voice.

he nods immediately, not catching how you're already on the way to forgiving him. "I didn't mean any of that. i'm like, so fucking grateful for you, y/n."

there's a pause, the words sitting between you like a missing puzzle piece. shyly, you keep your gaze on dylan. "yeah?"

"yeah," he breathes something that resembles a laugh. "without you i'd be a mess. i'd probably have JJ making my meals and giving me accidental salmonella."

despite everything, your mouth twitches, slowly forming a half grin. "probably," you muse.

the tension shifts between you, not completely gone but dissolving into something softer. he swallows again, throat dry. "i'm not just sorry about earlier, y/n. fuck I...since we were eight, I would say things, or do things that would just come out wrong." he shakes his head slightly, frustrated. "I never meant to hurt your feelings, or be a dick, i've just never been good with my feelings"

your hand twitches, wanting to reach out and touch his calloused knuckles in comfort. but you don't, not yet. instead, you just nod, a little solemn but understanding. "yeah, I know."

and you do.

"i'm sorry," dylan repeats, almost desperate.

"I know that too"

his grip tightens on the crutch, knuckles going a little pale. like he's bracing for something—rejection, maybe. or silence. or the worse case, moving out and leaving him. letting him wallow in his pain and loneliness without you. so almost hurriedly, he continues, "does that mean you'll come home?"

and you can see there's something careful in the way he asks it. hopeful, but restrained. like he doesn't think he's earned a yes, but really wants one.

you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, and step a little closer without fully thinking about it. finally, a proper smile begins to tug at your mouth as you nod towards the doors leading outside, "I would've regardless. my bed has just been so comfy since you put all that hard work in and fixed it, how could I not?"

at that, a small, tentative smile tugs at his mouth. "i'm trying to be serious," dylan almost whines, but the grin never falters.

"me too." you chirp, "come on dylan."

you go to turn, foot barley making a step past him when he reaches out, warm fingers and palm enclosing aorund your wrist.

not rough. not hesitant, either. something else that makes you stop mid step.

your breath catches as he gently, yet firmly pulls you back toward him. the crutch shifts awkwardly, tapping against the tiles as he adjusts, but he doesn't let go. not this time.

"dylan—"

you don't even get to finish before he's darting down and kissing you. it's quick at first—impulsive, like the decision outran the execution—but there's nothing unsure about it. the second it happens, it lands.

your brain scrambles to catch up, but he's pulling back before you can register the feeling.

dylan looks down at you, lips parted, like he's surprised himself too.

your heartbeat thumps in your ears. "what are you doing?"

"kissing you," he says, a little rough around the edges now.

"I—yeah, I got that," you say, blinking up at him. "why?"

dylan exhales, like something is finally catching up to him. "because I was gonna lose my nerve," he admits after a beat, gaze stating between yours and your slick mouth.

for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. and stare you do, at his eyes, the dusting of freckles over his nose, rosy cheeks and dark stubble and everything in between. your stare probably for a minute too long, and he probably thinks you're insane. or going to slap him.

"your nerve?" you repeat, curiosity lacing with hope in your expression.

he gulps. "yeah."

"why?" you ask, quieter now.

his grip loosens slightly, thumb brushing absently against your wrist like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. "because it's you," dylan breathes out like the words bring him relief. maybe they do.

you let out a breath, a little shaky. because what do you even do with something like that? he waits patiently for you to digest that, fiddling with your bracelet and the vein beneath your skin.

"...you're insane." you muse eventually.

it earns the smallest hint of a smile from him. he tugs you closer, smoothly, and shrugs casually. "probably."

"didn't think to tell me this before?"

"i'm telling you now," he offers playfully.

you glance at his mouth, then back up to his eyes. "you didn't even give me time to react."

"okay," he hums, finger still sweeping along your wrist. "react."

but instead, you tilt your head back, angling your nose against his and whisper—"kiss me again."

that's all it takes for his mouth to find yours for the second tome. and it's far from careful, which is hindsight makes sense. it's immediate, a little clumsy from the angle and the way he's balancing, but there's nothing uncertain about it. it's months—years—of things unsaid, feelings misfired, words that never came out right—it all crashes into this one moment.

his grip on your wrist loosens, sliding down just enough to steady you instead when you stumble.

your hand comes up instinctively, catching in the front of his hoodie, grounding yourself against him so he doesn't tip and you don't either. the noise of students passing by blurs into nothing—there's just him, warm and real and here. finally.

—

authors note: guys I gave up editing this halfway i’m sorry

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

Always There for You

Pairing:Dad!MattRempe x Mom!Reader

Synopsis: Your son is a big daddy’s boy, even before he was born. So once he starts teething, he starts to get more emotionally attached, always needing to be around Matt or there will be tantrums thrown. Once Matt goes on a triple away game, Theodore is all wet cheeks and screams. He wants his dad and only his dad.

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"Theodore sweetheart please," you say with a tired sigh, the apartment is shaking at this point with how loud his wails are. "Dadaaaaaaaaaaaa," his screams make a splitting headache arise in your head. "Do you want to call him?," that seems to get him to stop screaming, you sigh and get your phone to call Matt. "Hello?," Matt answers on the other side sounding as if practice just ended. "Matthew I genuinely cannot do this anymore," you reply, on the verge of tears, he could hear Theo in the back wailing. "It's alright baby give him the phone," once you hand the phone to Theo after putting it on FaceTime it's as if a spell was cast on him and he was all quiet and babbling to his father. "It hurts...," he tries to say which only comes out as babbles to Matt, who could only sympathize with him.

After the phone call Theo miraculously goes to bed without a fuss which you are grateful for, this was the last game Matt would be away for. You decided to just get ready for bed and hopefully once Matt is here tomorrow Theo will be a little bit better. Once morning arrives you could hear Theo crying through the baby monitor, so you get up and head over to his room and see he's standing in his crib clutching his puck jellycat. "Good morning baby," he reaches out towards you while sobbing. "Why are you crying?", your question has his lips trembling again, "Dada..." your heartaches knowing you couldn't do much but wait for tonight.

Once afternoon comes around, the apartment sounds like it came out of Jigsaw with Theo, screaming crying and banging his fists against every surface of the house he could find. You have tears running down your face as you try to get him to calm down. "Theo baby please mommy is tired, what do you want so that you can stop crying." At that his cries only got louder, you choke on a sob of your own and then remember that Matt had gotten him some teething pacifiers that you had in the freezer with different frozen fruits in. You place Theo down, which only leads him to cling to your leg, and head to the kitchen to get his teething pacifier. "Theo you want a snack?" you hoped that would diverge his attention for a second so that you could find the pacifier and it seemed to work. Once you got the pacifier and handed to Theo his wails slowly turned into sobs and then into whimpers. You finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Once you have Theo in his walker with his cold Paci you get a call from Matt, "Hello?" you answer, the exhaustion clear in your voice. "Hey just wanted to let you know we just landed I'll be home in half an hour," at that you almost felt like crying. "Oh that's so nice to hear," you reply to him. You guys talk a little more before you have to start getting dinner ready. While dinner is being made you could start to hear Theo get fussy again as you turn, to go see him, you could hear the lock being turned and the door opening to Matt. Once Theo sees his dad there is no stopping him, you could hear his little feet padding along with the walkers wheels. "Dadaaaaaaaa!!!!," you swear by now the neighbors probably are about to file a noise complaint. "There my little guys is," Matt exclaims and picks him up. Theo wraps his arms around Matt's neck and buries his face in his neck and squeals. You smile at the sight until Matt sees you and starts walking in your direction, "Sorry for leaving you with him during these times," he apologizes, "It's alright it isn't your fault your job requires you to," you reply. "Dada?" Theo lifts his head from Matt's shoulder to stare at him. "Yes buddy?', "Missed you," your heart practically melted at Theo's confession even though it just sounded like babbling. "I missed you to buddy, I heard you were giving mommy a hard time while I was away?" Matt teases him which leads to Theo hiding his face in Matt's neck again. You both laugh at that.

Once dinner is eaten and Theo is cleaned and ready for bed the tantrums ensue again, "NOOOOOOOOO," his screams bounced off the bedroom walls and you winced. "Theo sweetheart dada is not going anywhere he will be with mommy in the other room," you tried to gently explain to him but he was having none of it. "NO DADA STAY," he stubbornly refused and pulled Matt's hands to have him stay and you both knew that Matt could easily get him to release his grip but Theo's sobs were tugging on Matt's heart, "Buddy, do you want to sleep with mommy and dada today?" Matt asked him, to which the boys face light up, "YES" he nods vigorously. You sigh a decided that one night won't hurt. "Alright let's get you in your pjs".

Once you were done changing Theo into his pjs you took him to your and Matt's room and placed him on the bed with Matt while you went to go take a shower and do your night routine, when you were done Matt went to go take a shower and while waiting for him Theo climbed onto your chest and laid down. You stroked his hair while mindlessly scrolling through your phone. "Mama..." you heard Theo call out to you, "Yes my love" you respond to him, "Dada stay?" his question made your heart ache for him, he was so young to understand that when Matt leaves for away games it doesn't mean he is going away for forever. "Yes my love dada is going to stay," you respond hoping to ease his little minds worry.

Once Matt comes out of the bathroom with his joggers on he gets into bed and lays down and Theo Immediately climbs off oof you and onto Matt's bare chest. "Dada I wove you" he says to Matt in his sleepy tone which meant he was already drifting away to sleep, "I love you too buddy," Matt responds, "I'll always be there for you ok?" You smile at the interaction. Knowing that your it will take him a while to understand that Matt will never abandon him.

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I'm back to writing this idea came to mind so suddenly and I had the urge to just write it before I forgot about it. If you guys have any request feel free to leave them, I am hoping to get back into my writing again.

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

[12:00 AM] Kehho drabble!!! ♡♡♡

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: 𝓝𝓸𝓷 𝓲𝓭𝓸𝓵! 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 𝔁 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: While waiting for your boyfriend to come home you don't know when you fell asleep until you were suddenly woken up with someone kissing your face. Just a lot of fluff

PS- Keeho works at a office in this

---------♡♡♡---------♡♡♡---------♡♡♡-------

(12:00 AM)

𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 let out a sigh while slipping his shoes off, he just got back from the office after being held back a few hours for an upcoming project, which led to yet again another cancellation of the date you guys planned out, this was the 3rd time this has happened and 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 felt so guilty for cancelling them. It's not like he wanted to but you and him knew that this project could help him get the promotion that he's been working on for so long, you weren't mad at him, of course not, but you were a bit disappointed since you were really looking forward to this date thinking that you could finally spend some time with your boyfriend, but it seems fate had other plans. As soon as he walked in through the hallway leading to the inside of the house he saw you laying there on the couch fast asleep, his heart warmed up thinking you waited for him. 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 sighed yet again going up to you and crouching down to your level, his hand brushing a strand of your hair back. You stirred in your sleep but went back to sleep, 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 giggled seeing that he started peppering your face with kisses, you woke up feeling something on your face, when you opened your eyes the first thing you saw was 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸, "You're home, when did you get here? " ,you said, "Yeah just got home saw you on the couch sleeping so I came to wake you up", he said. You nodded," do you want something to eat?", he shakes his head, “I already had something at the office, I just want to take a shower and go to sleep with you in my arms”, “oh yeah let’s go to our room you must be really tired”

(12:47 AM)

You were on your bed scrolling through your phone waiting for 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 to get out of the shower. You were patiently waiting scrolling through your phone for what felt like hours. You heard the sound of water stop and a few minutes later the door opened and showed 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 in his sweats and a tank top with a towel around his neck, "Come here let me dry your hair", you spoke gesturing him to come closer and he did, he came and sat on the floor infront of you and you took the towel and started to rub his hair, "I'm sorry", he spoke, "Why are you sorry?", "I missed our date again and I promised you that this time I wouldn't miss it", you could feel him lean into your touch, "I'm disappointed yeah but I'm not mad, I know why you didn't show up and it's ok", "Are you sure I feel bad, is there anyway I can make it up to you", "Yeah there is a way you can make it up to me", "Yeah? What is it?", "Have ramen with me I need a midnight snack after that nap I took", "ok". You both headed to the kitchen opening the light and taking out 2 cup noodles and heating up the water in the electric kettle, once the water was hot you poured it into each cup and waited for them to cook, "This can be our little midnight date", you said, 𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸 laughed a little and took you in his arms, "Yeah this could be"

(1:20 AM)

𝓚𝓮𝓮𝓱𝓸, sighed, "I promise I will take you on a date next time". I chuckled, "I know you will let's sleep now", we both drifted to sleep knowing that whatever happens we will be ok……

[loganswdc]

rumor has it that j*mes v*wles said that alex’s teammate will be announced in two weeks (brazilian journalists confirmed/said this) and i am ILL

logan sargeant all my prayers are with you rn PLEASE tell me you either are staying with williams and they’ll treat you better or you’re going to a different team.

i actually feel sick holy shit

this cat is me.

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

If he doesn’t get a contract with Williams (which I pray he does) then I hope he goes to another team and then absolutely crush Williams by doing so so so much better in that team I hope he makes Williams realize how much of a fumble they did how bad they lost

[theferrarieffect-deactivated202]

while everyone’s either depressed over mclaren strategy, pissed at vcarb for ruining danny’s race, or freaking out over team radio i’m just gonna sleep easy knowing logan sargeant almost had fastest lap today 😂

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

Second fastest in that cardboard tractor he has to drive I know my GOAT 🐐 Mr. America 🇺🇸

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

HES USING THE POWER OF FOURTH OF JULY AND FREEDOM LETS GO

[yalooblueteeba]

what if everyone voted for logan for driver of the day on sunday because bro is spending 4th of july in england

[yalooblueteeba]

what if everyone voted for logan for driver of the day on sunday because bro is spending 4th of july in england

[pillowtalkm2]

logan’s not gonna be in the US for the 4th of july, but he’s gonna be in england for silverstone

so like what if as a joke we all collectively voted as driver of the day

for shits n giggles ofc 🤗

[kissedsuns]

what if we all collectively decided to vote logan sargeant as dotd for shits and giggles… haha… that would be funny…

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

We have to do this

[enlightining]

defending logan sargeant online isn’t enough. I need a gun.

[defencelessinseoul]

from p20 to p15 ALL I SEE IS IMPROVEMENT SARGOAT

[playingcupid-betweenidiots]

LOGAN SARGEANT WDC 2024 RAHHHH!!!!!!!!! 🦅🦅🦅🦅🦅🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸